


Melon and the Coconut

by Jenstar



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Apologies, M/M, Making Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:54:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26633182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenstar/pseuds/Jenstar
Summary: The alarm cuts right through the stillness of slumber. Felix curses before snatching his phone and hitting the snooze button. He murmurs something about five more minutes and reaches towards the opposite side of the bed, his fingers lazily wriggling for warm, freckled skin and lovely red half curls. But his hands simply close around cold nothing for the fourth week in a row, and Felix jolts up into a sitting position.Right. They broke up.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 16
Kudos: 115
Collections: Sylvix Week 2020 Fic Collection





	Melon and the Coconut

**Author's Note:**

> For Sylvix Week 2020. Day 4: Apologies/Making Up
> 
> *highlights happy ending with a giant yellow marker*

The alarm cuts right through the stillness of slumber. Felix curses before snatching his phone and hitting the snooze button. He murmurs something about five more minutes and reaches towards the opposite side of the bed, his fingers lazily wriggling for warm, freckled skin and lovely red half curls. But his hands simply close around cold nothing for the fourth week in a row, and Felix jolts up into a sitting position. 

Right. They broke up.

His alarm rings through the morning again. Felix flinches a bit as the sound screeches through his ears and settles at the front of his head; it feels like the sonic boom will split him right down the middle. 

He shuts off the alarm for good, and his attempts at running a hand through his hair are ruined when several tangled knots snag his fingers. He huffs out an irritated grunt and spends a solid ten minutes just staring at nothing in particular, his vision blurring in and out of focus as he tries to count the dust motes hanging in the air. 

Felix’s hazy gaze eventually settles on the open closet, and he notices the left side is significantly more empty than it was a few days ago. It’s not something he’s entirely unaccustomed to at this point, belongings have been steadily disappearing when he isn’t home for the last several weeks. So he’s not sure why this time a few missing hoodies and carefully folded jeans feels fucking heavy, like a cinderblock was dropped on his chest and the initial impact never faded, the pressure cracking his ribs until he feels a sharp sting behind his eyes. He buries the bottom of his palms into his sockets, pushing them in until the threat of tears finally fades. He wonders if he’ll spit out bones. 

Felix hasn’t taken a day off from work since the break up, not a single one. But as he dries his palms on the sheets, looks over to the empty space to his left, and distantly remembers all the cigarette butts in the ashtray, he figures it’s time to cash in on his obligatory “me time.” 

He sends off a quick text to his boss and curls under the comforter, a hand reaching out to someone who isn’t there.

It’s around noon when Felix digs his nails under his eyelids to pick the stickiness of sleep off his lashes. He contemplates the merits of a shower, but the thought of taking off his sweatpants is downright blasphemous, so he compromises by brushing his teeth. 

He stares at the lingering hoodies dangling in the almost empty space and reaches for the biggest one, an old college sweater fraying at the edges. He’s acutely aware of how unhealthy this is, but as he pulls it over his head and catches the faint aroma of bergamot, he decides he doesn’t give a shit.

Felix is ultimately grateful for the sweater as a frigid gust of wind billows through the rails of the balcony. He sucks down a cigarette like he deserves the resulting itch in his throat and the burn in his lungs. Maybe he does, Felix thinks. 

He frowns when he smashes the butt into the ashtray. It’s crowded, days old remnants of his wallowing sticking up at odd angles like a blooming, mutilated flower. Felix chews on his bottom lip, and he can’t stop staring at the mess. 

Because that’s where it all started, with the fucking ashtray. 

Felix tries not to think about it often, tries not to think about it all. He hates getting hung up on the past, hates it even more when his loved ones make an effort to commune with their ghosts. But he can’t stop staring at the damn ashtray, and he sinks his teeth into the pulp of his lip until the taste of copper mingles with the taste of ash and suddenly he’s so pissed off it takes more willpower than he’d like to admit to not plunge his fist into the concrete. 

He lets out a grunt as he lights another cigarette, mutters about neat freaks when he moves onto his third. Of fucking course he’s capable of cleaning the ashtray, what a stupid question. Yes, he’s aware he’s not the only who works long hours. No, he’s not a child who needs someone to pick up after him constantly, what the hell?

And Felix should have seen the bear trap from a mile away at the mention of childhood, but it had clamped down on his ankle nonetheless. 

Because when the topic of childhood is brought up, the topic of brothers is inevitable, as is the topic of fathers, which allows for knives to dig into old wounds and for venom-laced words to sprinkle over the flesh like salt. 

_You think you can act like an asshole because you have daddy issues?_

__

__

_Ha! As if you’re not an asshole because of daddy issues. But you’re even worse because at least when you get compared to Rodrigue or Glenn, there’s a little chunk of real praise you can latch on to, but instead you step and spit on it like a fucking brat, like a fucking asshole._

_You don’t know shit._

_Yeah, okay Felix._

There was more because of course there was; more talk of daddy issues and assholes, more mentions of the unfairness of dead brothers morphing into a heated debate of warring insecurities and shitty coping mechanisms, and then Felix had played dirty because he was angry and hurt and tired of stepping into bear traps. 

So he plunged his knife deeper into the salted wound before he could step into another. 

_I don’t want to be here when you inevitably end up like Miklan._

Felix lets out a sigh and wonders when the cut on his lip scabbed over, the taste of copper gone. He’s still angry, so incredibly angry, but when he accidentally ashes his cigarette into his cold cup of coffee, he swears he can hear the faint echo of a playful _party foul!_ reverberate in his ear. 

He takes the ashtray and cleans it when he gets inside. 

Felix hates Bud Light, thinks Bud Light Lime is even worse, but it’s all he has in his nearly empty fridge, so he parks himself into a corner of the couch and chugs about three of them before he punishes himself even further with a bag of stale jerky. He vaguely recalls a docuseries about unsolved murders Mercedes recommended and figures it seems fitting. 

He manages to finish one episode before the clicking of the front door unlocking thunders through the apartment. 

Sylvain freezes at the threshold with a duffel bag in hand, the shock on his face slowly fading into a neutral expression as he registers Felix sprawled on the couch with his sweater on. Felix tries not to scowl. 

“Hey,” he says, and Felix hates how starved he’s been for Sylvain’s voice, hates the way it slithers in between the gaps of his rib cage, coils around his heart, and constricts until he forces out a cough. 

“Hi.”

“I thought...you’re usually at work right about now,” Sylvain says like he’s treading through a sea of glass. “I can come back another time.”

“No, it’s fine,” Felix huffs a little too quickly. He’s not sure if Sylvain refraining from teasing him about it is disappointing. “Don’t let me get in the way.”

“Okay.” Sylvain takes off his coat and wanders over to their bedroom. Felix can’t pry his eyes away from the duffel bag he takes with him. He decides he’s disappointed. 

Felix tries to busy himself with his phone, but the distinct sounds of hoodies being pulled off hangers and stuffed into a duffel bag is too distracting. He buries his nose into the neckline of the sweater before mustering up the courage to pad into the room. Sylvain has moved onto the dresser, neatly folding shirts and boxers into his bag.

“Do you want this one back now?” Felix asks, tugging at the hem of the sweater. 

Sylvain gives him a half-assed half-smile and it feels like a swift uppercut, clacking both rows of teeth with such force Felix thinks they might crack. Maybe he will spit out bones. 

“No, it’s fine. I can come back for it.”

They don’t say anything else for a few minutes, and Felix awkwardly stands there while Sylvain reclaims all the shared pieces of himself and tucks them beneath the safety of a zipper. Felix wonders if he should leave him alone, but the sudden thought of not keeping Sylvain in his sight makes him uncomfortable. 

It’s funny, Felix thinks, how it was Sylvain who warned Felix at the start of their relationship of his knack for ruining everything with nothing but the edge of a steel pin tongue, and how Felix said it would be okay, he’s sturdier than he looks. 

But as soon as Sylvain took a pin to Felix’s shell and hammered it down until it pierced through the meat, splitting it open until everything spilled out like water, Felix returned the favor by ripping through Sylvain’s rind with the blunt edge of his nails, clawing through the flesh until he found seeds waiting to grow at the center, crushing them in his grip. 

Sylvain stuffs a few more small trinkets into the bag and faces Felix, looking at him expectedly until Felix gets out of the way and they both walk back into the living room. Sylvain brushes past him, but pauses before reaching the door. He turns to face Felix, who fights the urge to reach for him by balling his hands into fists, digging his nails into his palms.

“I can text you next time if you want,” Sylvain offers, and his voice is so soft and disarming, as if Felix hadn’t reached deep into his cavity and ripped everything out, as if Felix deserves any kind of consideration. 

“You don’t have to, this is your home, too,” and Felix surprises both of them, Sylvain’s eyebrows flying to his hairline and Felix’s nails digging further into his skin as the words fly out of his mouth.

But Sylvain’s eyebrows settle, and he gives Felix that fucking half-assed smile again and says, “Sure.” He turns his back to Felix and strides towards the door, but suddenly the thought of watching Sylvain walk out the door again fills Felix’s lungs with tar, and it burns as it paves along the ridges of his throat.

“Sylvain,” Felix says, and he winces at the way his voice shakes like a soaked bird. 

Sylvain gives himself a few moments before turning around, leveling Felix with a gaze he doesn’t know how to react to, but where he would normally favor looking at the ground, Felix allows himself to make eye contact, and he watches hope seep out of the splintered cedar of that gaze like tree sap. 

“What, Felix?”

And so he reaches for it. 

“How are you doing?”

“We haven’t said a word to each other for four weeks and you’re asking me how I’m doing?” Sylvain asks incredulously. “I’m peachy.”

“Fair. I...yeah.”

Sylvain just shrugs, but he doesn’t move and relief blooms throughout Felix like a sprouting palm frond. 

“You’re nothing like Miklan.”

“You sure about that?” And Felix deserves that. 

“You’re nothing like any of them, your brother, your father. Nothing. You’re...”

Sylvain doesn’t say anything, but he does let go of the duffel bag.

“I’m still fucking angry.”

Sylvain snorts. “Join the club. I’m not too happy with you, either.”

“I didn’t mean it. I was pissed, I’m still really pissed, but that doesn’t mean I get to be an asshole.” 

Sylvain takes a step forward but stops abruptly like he’s still wading through that cutting sea, as if the wrong move would result in a shard of glass glistening with a sanguine sheen. 

“You must hate me,” Felix says. 

Sylvain just stares and stares until unfiltered agony briefly flashes across his face before it’s replaced by fondness. “No, I don’t. I can’t.”

Felix chews on the inside of his cheek before he says, “I’m sorry.” He can feel his bones slowly begin to mend at the marrow. 

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, and then Felix feels that warm, freckled skin slowly bundle him up and pull him into Sylvain’s chest. 

“I’m sorry, too,” Sylvain whispers into his hair. 

“We’re disasters,” Felix breathes. “Fucking disasters.”

Sylvain laughs and the sound slithers into Felix’s chest, but there’s no constricting pressure this time, just a warm caress like fingers ghosting over flushed cheeks under the secrecy of dusk.

“We’re the disaster duo.” Sylvain tightens his hold on Felix. 

“Do you think…?”

“Do you want me to go, Fe?” And isn’t that a stupid question.

“No.”

“Then I’ll stay,” Sylvain decides. Felix wraps his arms around his neck and breathes in the scent of bergamot. 

After a minute Sylvain laughs and says, “I can’t believe you put one of my sweaters on.”

“Don’t be a dick.”

Felix feels the quiet rumble of laughter against his skin as Sylvain plants a kiss on his temple. He meets Sylvain halfway when he goes in for another. It’s chaste and familiar and Felix wonders how he even survived four whole weeks without it. They really need to talk, sort through the split shells and ripped rinds before they can really move on, but Felix knows they will. So he kisses him again before dragging them both to the couch, where Felix falls asleep with his head tucked beneath Sylvain’s chin.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Title is a Glass Animals song.
> 
> I'm on [twitter](https://twitter.com/jenstarlol).


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